


Persica

by cylobaby27



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: D/s universe, Gen, Platonic Love, dom!Joan Watson, just lots of love and cuddles, platonic D/s relationship, platonic handcuffs, sub!Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cylobaby27/pseuds/cylobaby27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has the greatest mind in the world. Sometimes, however, it gets too much for him to handle. With drugs out of the picture to help him clear his thoughts, Joan offers a healthier, better solution.</p><p>Set in a D/s universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persica

Sherlock's eyes flicked from the files strewn over the table to the photos and papers plastered all over the wall over the fireplace. The cousin could have... But then the brother... And then there was the ex-lover from Azerbaijan, the dom whose upper lip had subtly twitched when Sherlock had mentioned the victim's current husband...

No, no, he had an alibi. Airtight, supported by three security cameras.

But if it hadn't been him, then why the polar bear hairs?

It just didn't make sense. None of it.

This case was morphing in front of him, forming into new knots every time he thought he had one bit untangled.

He had faced a similar case in London. One that seemed insurmountable. He had had a way to quiet his mind then, though.

God, he wanted a hit.

"Sherlock!" Joan snapped in the way that meant she had already said his name several times.

He glanced over at her. She was in the armchair by his couch, dressed in loose-fitting pajamas and her red robe, glasses on the tip of her nose as she flipped through the victim's emails. (Nothing in there but the usual family correspondences and alerts from the D/s dating site she had signed up for years before and had never deleted). It was dark outside, and had been since the last time he had checked. Watson had likely planned on going to bed much earlier, only to be also caught into the pull of this case.

"Yes, Watson?"

She looked pointedly at the arm of the couch. His fingers were drumming violently against the leather. Funny. He hadn't even noticed.

He moved his hand from the couch to his thigh so the noise would be reduced, but he couldn't manage to stop his fingers from moving.

When she kept watching him with those steady, dark eyes, he bounded to his feet. He took a few steps closer to the notes on the wall, and then veered to the left, squinting and then opening his eyes wide.

“What are you doing.” Joan did that sometimes—made questions seem like statements.

“Changing my perspective, Watson!” he said. “If I can just…” He took another step back, and then clamored to stand on the couch. “There must be a way to get to the bottom of this.”

“Is it helping?” she asked. “Sherlock, we’ve been on this case for two weeks. If something hasn’t popped out at you yet, staring at it longer isn’t going to help. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you have barely slept since we started this, and it’s already two a.m. tonight.” Shaking her head, she said, “The more manic you get, the harder it will be for you to focus and find an answer.”

“And yet, my mind refuses to sleep when the answer is so nearly in my grasp.”

“It’s nowhere near your grasp. It’s the opposite of in your grasp.”

“Be that as it may, what, exactly, do you propose?” Sherlock said.

She looked him over, clearly taking note of the scruff on his chin, the wrinkles in his buttoned shirt, and the way his hair was sticking out at all angles. (He wondered if she had spotted the tremor in his right leg. In the name of education, he should point it out, but he didn’t want to draw more attention to his state of disarray). She was quiet for a long moment, face inscrutable. Finally, she nodded to herself, and he realized what she was going to suggest the moment before she opened her mouth. “Let me take you down,” she said.

He recoiled, hopping down from the couch and turning his nose up at her. “Thank you for your concern, Watson, but no.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Watson, my mind is my call to greatness. The source of both of our financial stability. My life. It can’t just be, be, turned off at your whim.”

“It actually can,” Watson said. “And it will help. Letting your mind calm down for a while can give you that new perspective.”

“It’s not like rebooting a computer,” Sherlock snapped, fingers beating a rapid tattoo against his palm. “There are… complications.”

Joan crossed her arms. “It’s not as complicated as you think.”

“Or perhaps you simply don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Sherlock pointed out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me… And note, I’m not actually asking your permission.”

“I know that every girl you’ve brought through the front door has been a neutral or another sub. That you tenuously keep yourself in check. That you’ve learned how to get out of every set of handcuffs on the market.”

Every set of handcuffs he could track down, on the market or not.

“And I know that the last time you had a dom was Moriarty.”

“My only,” Sherlock corrected. His fingers had stopped drumming. “My only dom.”

“Your only dom,” Joan repeated softly. Her arms uncrossed and her expression grew softer. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“I’m not asking for your pity,” Sherlock snapped. “It was and always has been my decision. I never needed one before her, and I certainly do not need one now.”

“But you are a sub,” Joan said. “This is a part of you.”

“So is cavorting in the woods and chasing down ungulates, and yet here I am.”

“Sweater-vest and all.”

Sherlock glared at her. “Humans are not controlled solely by their biological urges anymore, Watson. Well, most of us aren’t. Just because I’m a sub doesn’t mean I’m dying to submit to someone. I don’t need someone to take care of me.”

“And I’m a dom. Does that mean I go around trying to drop every sub I see into sub-space? Of course not. But I want to take care of someone. To help them let go, to have them trust me. It’s the same way some women have maternal instincts.”

“Not quite the same,” Sherlock said. He was still frozen in the middle of the living room. How could he feel so cornered when his back was to open air and his opponent was in her pajamas? "Not without crossing some legal and moral lines.”

“I don’t want to have sex with you.” She said it bluntly, matter-of-factly. “That’s not what this is about."

Sherlock clenched his fists. “Then what do you want from me, Watson?”

“I—“

“You want to finally get the upper hand on Sherlock Holmes? To see me at my weakest? You’re not alone in that. Police forces are full of doms looking to show an uppity sub their place. I’ve had offers, and I’ve turned them down, because I’m no one’s plaything.”

“Are you done?” Joan’s lips had been tightening through his entire rant after he had cut her off— a dangerous sign.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but then shut it and nodded, waving a hand to show that he was graciously letting her take the floor.

“Okay. Clearly there’s more here than I had anticipated. So I’m going to be upfront and clear. I don’t want to humiliate you. I don’t want to 'put you in your place,’ other than to show you that it’s with me. That you can always turn to me. I would never have offered this as your sober companion, but as your partner? As your friend? I want you to be happy, at peace with yourself. I want you to trust me to get you there.” She shifted her weight as though she were about to go to him, but she stopped herself from moving. “I can see that you’re falling apart, and I want to put you back together.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I don’t know whether it’s more ridiculous that you think I’m falling apart, or that you think you’d be qualified to fix me.”

“When I was your sober companion, I was helping you find your own strength. This is the same thing. Because there are some things people can’t do by themselves. You can give up control to me, and trust that I’ll take care of you.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he was breathing. It was so very difficult to be in control all the time. He felt like he was going to crawl out of his own skin, and that it was only his tenuous grasp on his mind that kept him from shaking apart at the seams.

Joan continued, "And then once you’re centered, you’ll dive right back into the case. But this time, you’ll realize that you’re not alone.”

Sherlock paused. “I know I’m not alone.”

“Do you?” Joan asked. “Because it seems to me like you could trust me as far as you could throw me. And don’t give me the numbers on how far you could actually throw me."

“That’s all you want? My trust?” Sherlock sneered.

Joan nodded. “And I know that’s hard for you to give, especially when your last dom betrayed you so thoroughly. But Irene— Moriarty— doesn’t have to be your last experience with this. It doesn’t even have to be the defining one. You just have to trust me to know what I’m doing.”

Swallowing, Sherlock met her eyes. “Of course I trust you, Watson. I trust you with my life.”

They waited in silence for a few moments, but Joan didn’t come over to him. He raised his eyebrows and made an impatient gesture.

“You want this?” Joan asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shuffled his feet. “Didn’t you just spend the last ten minutes talking me into it?”

“I was trying to get you to be honest about why you’ve been refusing this. You can agree with my argument without wanting to go down now.”

He had given his body, heart, and mind to Moriarty. She had made him feel taken care of. Made him feel wanted. It had satisfied an intense craving within him that he had never even known he had wanted. But it had all been a lie.

Joan wasn’t lying.

“I want this,” he said, straightening his back. “Tell me what to do.”

“That’s the point,” she agreed. “But not like this. Couch.” She gestured to it, and he sat on the edge of a cushion. The woman joined him, sitting close enough so that he could feel her body heat, but not close enough that they were touching.

“Good. Now for some ground rules. You need to be honest with me, one hundred percent. If something isn’t working for you, tell me. That means no hiding what you’re feeling. I know you’re a master at body language, but I need you to be open with me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said stiffly. He could vividly remember being with Irene. She hadn’t set any rules. She had taken and given what he needed instinctively.

“And you don’t have to call me ma’am. I’m still Joan, even like this.”

“Okay… Joan,” he said, shoulders loosening slightly.

“Good. I’m not going to hurt you, but if I put you in handcuffs, you can’t just break out of them. They’re a symbol.” She waited to make sure he understood, and then said, “Can I touch you?”

He frowned. “I thought you didn’t want to have sex. You do realize you’ve slept with my brother, right?”

“Quiet. We’re not having sex. But believe it or not, there is a middle ground between keeping a two foot bubble of personal space and having sex. So, can I touch you?”

“I—yes.”

Joan put a hand on his shoulder. The contact was not unusual—he had patted her shoulder on occasion—but when she didn’t move it, it felt intimate. Comforting. “And you need a safeword,” she said, rubbing her thumb in small circles over his shoulder. “Something you wouldn’t normally say. Then again, that might be a difficult task in this house.”

“Irregardless. That’s my word, because I can guarantee the only way I would utter that brutalization of the English language is if I’m under duress.”

“Perfect. Any questions?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Okay.” She slid her hand down to clasp his, and then pulled him to his feet. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“That wasn’t a request.”

He blinked. Right. She was in control. At that thought, a thread of tension slipped from his body. He didn’t need to worry about where they were going, or what they were doing.

She kept a firm grip on his hand as they walked up the stairs, maneuvering around the miscellanea that littered the brownstone’s floors. As they walked, she said, “Now, focus on what you’re feeling. My hand.” Warm. Pleasantly dry. ”Your clothes.” The stiff cotton of his collar was brushing against the five o’clock shadow on his neck. “The air. The central heating isn’t enough to mask the chill from the snow outside.”

The polar bear in the case would have needed snow. But this was the first real snowfall of winter. Where would the bear have been kept? If it was even a live polar bear. Those hairs could have come from a pelt. Or the zoo. But the Central Park Zoo’s polar bear had died months ago.

“Stop that,” Joan said. “I can tell when you’re thinking too much. Focus back on my hand.”

He nodded as he did so, barely noticing as they entered Joan’s bedroom. He had been there before, usually to wake her up, but never as a guest.

Was that because he was never welcome? Or because he was always welcome?

Joan let go of his hand, so he turned to her curiously. Without speaking, she put her hand on the back of his neck and tugged him forward so that his head was resting on her shoulder. “Don’t move,” she said softly. He could feel the vibration of her words. “Close your eyes.”

His head rested on her shoulder alongside her own. It was as though in taking the weight of his head that she was also taking away the constant weight of his mind. The hand on the back of his neck was slender, but it felt confident and commanding. Much like Joan herself.

She smelled faintly of peaches.

He must have said it out loud, because she responded. “I made peach tea after dinner. The dinner you ate two bites of and then ignored.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. Her other hand had begun stroking methodically through his hair, draining away any desire to respond. Letting himself slump forward slightly, he let out a long breath.

Though it was, as Joan had pointed out, cold in the brownstone, and Joan was barefoot while Sherlock had wool socks, they stood there together for long enough that Sherlock completely lost track of time.

“Are you calmer?” Joan asked softly.

Sherlock nodded into her shoulder.

“Okay,” she said. “Stand up for me.”

He lifted his head from her shoulder. The hand stroking his hair disappeared, but the one on his neck remained. She looked in him the eye as she tugged him forward, and then pushed on his shoulders until he sat down on the edge of the bed. With calm efficiency, she unbuttoned his vest and shirt, leaving him in his white undershirt. “Now your pants,” she said. “Well, trousers to you. Pants will stay on in my bed.”

She unbuttoned his trousers and pulled, asking him to lift up for a moment until she could maneuver them down. Once she had folded them and set them aside, Joan said, “Stay there.”

She walked to the other side of her bed, but he didn’t follow her with his gaze. Joan wouldn’t leave him. She had a reason for going.

That reason became apparent when she appeared back in front of him, a pair of dark brown leather cuffs in her grasp. “Hands in front,” she instructed.

He did so, and she put a cuff over each of his wrists, locking them into place facing each other. The leather was soft and buttery, worn but not overused. The locking mechanism felt secure. He could break out in seconds.

He wouldn’t.

And that knowledge, that he was, for all intents and purposes, restrained, felt comforting rather than overwhelming.

Handcuffs had only ever been a source of subjugation. They were meant to stop him from being free. Now, though, they allowed him to do exactly what he wanted. And that was to do nothing.

Joan checked the cuffs deftly, making sure they weren’t too tight, but that they were firmly in place.

She moved away again, first turning off the overhead light and then the lamp by her bed. The room was still illuminated from the street lights that shone through Joan’s blinds. No matter how calm it was inside their home, Brooklyn never slept. But none of that mattered.

He stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, staring forward in a peaceful daze as she settled on the bed beside him, and then leaned back onto the mattress as she used the cuffs to pull him sideways and down. She wrapped around him, one arm tucked under his neck, the other reaching across him to rest firmly on his locked wrists.

“Now sleep,” she instructed into the back of his neck, voice already blurry with tiredness.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he let himself settle more fully onto the bed. Surrounded by Joan, he felt some tension deep inside him finally settle, and he drifted to sleep.

\--- --- --- ---

Sunlight striped the bedroom walls when Sherlock opened his eyes the next morning. It was close to noon, and he could tell from the tone of the light and shadows that it had stopped snowing at some point over the night.

Blinking, he realized what had woken him up. Joan was placing a tray on the mattress, smiling at him. “’Morning, Sherlock,” she greeted. “How are you feeling?”

“This seems rather backward,” he pointed out. “Usually I bring you breakfast. To this very bed, in fact.”

“Usually,” she said, handing him a cup of tea once he had sat up against the headboard, “you wake up before me. Or don’t sleep at all.”

She didn’t seem to expect him to have remained in sub-zone through the night, and he was grateful for it, grateful to look on her with a clear mind in the morning sunlight. “Ah, then perhaps you should have slept in.”

Settling cross-legged on the mattress beside him and grabbing a cup of coffee for herself, Joan grinned. “And have missed seeing you sleep? Not a chance. Did you know you snore? Just a little bit.”

“You talk in your sleep,” he replied. “Occasionally even coherently.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “So how do you feel?”

He took a moment to consider that. His vision was clear. The tremor in his leg had ceased. His mind was sharp. The itching under his skin was gone. “Well-rested,” he said. Turning to her, he added, “Was that your whole goal of all…that? To get me to sleep? To stop pacing around and disturbing you?”

She shook her head. “If the goal was for you to lose consciousness, I would have tranqed you.” When he snorted, she said, “Various men with badges have offered to provide the darts.”

Turning fully to face him, she said, “I didn’t lie. I wanted to help you. And I think I did.”

Nodding, he said, “You did. But what did you get out of it? All we did was sleep.”

“That’s not enough?” she teased. “You trusted me. You let me tell you what to do without question, and you let me take care of you. I felt…honored that you trusted me that much. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Just say the word.”

He met her steady gaze. “Thank you, Watson.” He took a sip of the tea, letting the flavor—honey, chamomile, and peaches—roll over his tongue. Then he blinked. “Of course. I know who did it.”

“Hm?” she asked, already immersed in her coffee.

“The case. The polar bear hairs weren’t just a clue. They were everything.” His mind was clear and his thoughts were finally focused. Even without seeing the papers downstairs, they suddenly all made sense. “Eat, get dressed, and then we’re going to solve a murder.”


End file.
